My Charmer
by drizzt1031
Summary: My Conspirator one shot. Lewis Payne's defense claimed he was innocent due to irrational fanaticsm. Perhaps he was indeed a little bit crazy. This is how he might have coped during his final days. Thank you Norman Reedus for showing me another fascinating character.


**AN:** So, this is based on the Robert Redford movie "The Conspirator" which is about the trial of the conspirators involved in the assassination of Abraham Lincoln (mostly one Mary Surratt). I found the character of Lewis Powell aka Lewis Payne (Paine) to be absolutely fascinating. Payne/Powell is played by the ever awesome Norman Reedus. If you haven't seen the movie… wait why are you here then? Go see it. (If you are from my other stories, HEY! How are you? Welcome!) The movie is lovely. Really. Naturally I own nothing. Not even the computer I am typing on. Slightly depressed about that. Not any names, people, although technically neither does Mr. Redford considering these were actual people. I digress. This is a one shot, simply because I am not sure if it would be an interesting enough read to expand on. It's a fanfic of a historical fiction. Liberties with facts will be taken. **AN**

Damn hood. The stiff padded material smothered his face, enclosing his head in his own hot breath. Sweat trickled from his brow down his face and neck. He'd long since given up scratching at the irritation, discouraged by the sharp edges of the iron manacle digging into his wrists.

Lewis Powell blew out his frustration against the hood, immediately regretting it as it only added to the humid heat building around his damp skin. A determined droplet slid down his nose, soaking into the atrocity covering his head. As another drop made its way along his eyebrow to his nose, Lewis jumped to his feet, the familiar hintings of a rage burning at the base of his spine.

"Payne?" called his guard through the bars. 'We're not going to have another problem are we?"

"No, John," his reply seeped through the rough fabric. His head throbbed at the recollection of his last "problem." Slamming his head hadn't been the best way to try and kill himself, given the failure and subsequent agony. Yet the absolute disinterest in life had spilled over. He was so very tired of being considered a treasonous monster. Disappointed at his failures. Depressed with his continuously absent kin. All of the misconceptions of his duty had drowned under the tidal wave of misery. The trial had drained what little conviction he had left. Every time the tribunal continued their slaughter of any one of the individual conspirators, they would all be collected from their cells to be present. Lewis had had his full of sitting in a line on display for the court like so many performing clowns, or a firing squad. The prosecution hardly had his hands full, given the assistance of the entire staff of the Secretary of War. The actual assassinations or attempted assassinations were pretty cut and dry themselves. Trials were simply a formality to keep order. Given the opportunity, he was certain the crowd would have lynched them.

It was the ones who were outside of the inner conspiracy circle, that were truly unfortunate. He earned his cell. Anyone caught by circumstance knowing or associating in any way with them suffered a dangerous scrutiny. Dr. Mudd merely treated John Wilkes Booth's broken leg, and still he found himself in a jail cell. It seemed the only way to avoid incarceration was to lie, or sign the Oath of Allegiance and testify against the condemned.

Lewis leaned his head back against the cool stone of his cell wall. A distant feminine sobbing echoed down the hall.

"Sounds like things aren't going well for Mrs. Surratt."

He started at the soft voice sounding from the inside of the cell. His head twisted about in a vain attempt to discern the source of the voice. Something disturbed the top of his hood. Lewis shook his head, attempting to remove whatever had pinched his hood. As he moved about, he noticed the hood did not follow his motions in the same claustrophobic manner it had before. Tucking his head into his chest, he slid his forehead under the rough hem of the stifling material. Fresh air hit his face, cooling the layer of sweat that coated his flesh. Lewis watched as the hood hovered over his head, clutched in the firm grasp of a lovely young woman. His jaw dropped as he stared at the woman. Glancing to his left, he searched for the guard. Judging by the slack posture and blank expression, he had not noticed the newest occupant of his cell. How could he not see her? Or hear her for that matter?

The woman dropped the hood to his side, and sat against the wall opposite him. His eyes traveled along her relaxed form taking in the strange apparition. She had to be no more than 18, a full grown woman for all intent and purposes, but youthful air still clinging to her cheeks. Clad in a dark forest green, her skirts pooled out about her entire lower half in a dome of fabric. Her matching bodice lined in a pale lime green color, held her torso snuggly in that hourglass shape. Long slender hands lay daintily in her lap. Her dark brown hair was piled into a soft bun with rebellious tendrils slipping from it to frame a sweet oval face. Full light pink lips curled into a gentle smile beneath a little button nose. Under the intensity of his uninhibited stare, her delicate eyebrows lifted over large almond shaped eyes. Her emerald green eyes sparkled as she stared openly back at him. Something about the woman struck him as vaguely familiar.

"This isn't real," he spoke quietly, not wanting to alert the guard to his apparent madness.

"Perhaps," came the delusion's response, still smiling her kind smile.

"But," he squinted at her, searching his memory. "I've seen you before."

"Also possible," she laughed softly. Her mirth had a sweet musical note, like little bells jingling in a spring breeze.

"Where have we met?" She shook her head at him, sending more locks free behind her ears.

"Oh, no," she answered. "We have not been introduced." He cocked his head at her curiously. An image of the courtroom flashed in his mind. In the far corner sat a beautiful young woman watching the proceedings with a wide eyed wonder. He remembered her large eyes making her appear like lost child.

"You were at the trial," he said finally. She giggled lightly behind her hand and nodded. It still did not explain what she was doing there.

"Perhaps your attorney was right," she smirked at him. "Perhaps you are mad." Lewis blew out a heated breath at the notion.

"What is the matter my blue eyed charmer?" He shook his head at the endearment.

"I must have been," he muttered. She looked at him inquisitively. "I nearly killed three men," the words slashed at him from the inside, even as he spoke them. "You were there, you heard."

"Secretary Seward," she said softly.

"Seward, his bodyguard, his son," his voice rose with a newfound anger. He'd nearly killed three people; two of them not even his targets. Seward himself had been bedridden from a carriage accident. Hardly the honorable thing to do.

"Why?" Lewis stared at the woman for a moment, puzzling over how to answer her inquiry. Nothing of what she said held any malice or judgment. It was just a question. One he'd all but forgotten the answer to. His shoulders fell as the futility of his actions hit him. The plan had seemed fairly clever at the time. Booth would execute the president in his box during the play. Atzerodt's target was the next in the chain of command: Vice President Andrew Johnson. He would remove the next in the chain: Secretary of State. The North would be distraught and distracted with confusion and morning allowing the South to reform their armies. Booth had been the only one to successfully assassinate his target, though a bullet in a burning barn had been his reward. The vice president came out entirely unscathed, thanks to the drunken cowardice of his fellow conspirator. Though Lewis had taken up his task with a fanatical enthusiasm, he'd failed miserably. The carriage accident left Seward in a jaw brace that blocked his knife, and his useless gun already jammed.

"I believed it was my duty." It was the only answer he had left. The one he'd given in court. A hollow response that most found insincere. It wasn't as though he were lying. The truth had just lost its luster, becoming an empty casing of the pride driven fury he'd had before. Instead, shame beat down upon the formerly justified barricade surrounded by his good intentions. One that the past few weeks had given him plenty times to go over in his head until he had dissected every detail. Nothing lay beneath the layers. Each corner of empty excuses produced more regret to confirm his guilt.

"Was this the intended result?"

"No." His admition stuck in his throat. They'd all come to terms with the possibility of being captured or killed. Suffering for the cause was to be expected.

"I'm sorry. " His apparition's voice held no mockery. In fact, it was the sweetest lyric he'd heard in a while. Genuine sympathy from a pretty face.

"What's your name?" She looked at him intently searching his face as though the answer lay in his dark features.

"What sort of name might I have?" she asked, dancing about his inquiry with her pleasant little smile.

"You look like a Melanie to me, " he said through slightly pursed lips.

"Melanie it is."

"Are you an angel?" He pressed her for some sort of straight answer. "Or have I made you up entirely using a memory?" Melanie's smile faltered, fading into a veil of sadness. She rose slowly from her place by the wall, her skirts sliding up from its voluminous cloud to flow about her legs. He watched her smooth motions as she made her way to his side. Her soft fingertips slid under his scruffy chin, cradling his jaw in her palm.

"Does it really matte?" she asked. "I'm here for you."

"Please, Mr. Payne," Miss Surratt pleaded. Her hands were wrapped in her skirts, twisting and wringing the cloth in her hands. "They're going to execute my mother." Lewis thrust his aching forehead into one of his manacled hands.

"Miss Surratt," he answered, his voice muffled from his downward position. "I have given my statement. I have spoken to the guards and the reverend. I don't know what else I can do." The rustling swish of her skirts rippled through the cell, as she paced in the tiny space.

"I am sorry," Lewis sighed. "I truly am, but no matter how many times I protest her innocence, the tribunal will not hear me. If your brother would but come back, they wouldn't let her be their scapegoat."

Miss Surratt turned on him, her eyes flashing. They locked gazes for a moment; each defying the other to look away first. A heavy sigh burst from her tight lipped mouth.

"I'm sorry for wasting your time, Mr. Payne." She spoke abruptly, leaving in a rush of rustling skirts and stifled sobs. Lewis let out another bedraggled sigh, hoping he could force out the swelling depression with each exhalation as a drowning man might spit out water.

"My poor blue eyed charmer." Lewis glanced up at the soft voice drifting down to where he sat, sprawled across his face. He'd begun to enjoy this insanity. At least his affliction would not be cruel to him, but rather wrap him in a self-knitted comfort.

"We're going to be executed in a week." His tone as passive as reasonably expected. "Me, George, David, and Mrs. Surratt. They're going to hang us." Silence filled the space between them, while he waited for her smiles and biased sympathy. Sarah's lips, however, did not ascend into their normal sweet tempered curl. She sunk down next to him, her movements lacking their normal dainty fluidity.

"What is it?" He asked, clasping her delicate fingers in his.

"I am sorry that you have to die." Her voice crackled slightly, alerting him to the single tear trailing down her cheek.

"Does my own delusion weep for me?" He teased. Melanie pulled her hand out of his grasp and turned away from his scrutiny.

"Who else would cry for you, Lewis?"

The air smelled different today. Somehow it carried upon its person a more pungent array of scents. Lewis could smell the morning dew on grass turn stale under the sun. In fact, all his senses were inflamed with the textures, flavors, and scents of a world he would soon be leaving. A soft fluttering sounded just outside his cell. Lewis thought passingly about his brothers, and their "glorious" deaths. He would see them soon. He supposed he should be grateful for the knowledge of his imminent demise. He could appreciate all that he previously took for granted. If only for a few minutes. The past seven days had only punctuated his loneliness, with the distinct lack of Melanie. Apparently in the end, even his own mind abandoned him.

"Come on then Payne," his guard called from the more independent side of the bars. "It's time."

The freshly constructed wooden structure loomed in front of them. A large crowd stood before the scaffold, anxiously awaiting their final performance. Several guards patrolled the walls, shouting down the events to people on the other side, who no doubt could not afford tickets inside. Walking up the stairs, Lewis' eyes found a flash of dark green. He squinted at the color, silently cursing the naked summer sun.

The guards sat them in a row in front of their respective nooses. To his right sat the stoic Mrs. Surratt, unbreakable before their audience. To his left were Atzerodt and Heorald, both sniffling quietly. As the execution order was read, Lewis squinted again into the crowd, seeking a clear image of the source of green. The sun drifted behind a cloud, gifting him with an uninhibited view. There clad in a green dress was his Melanie. Though he fixed his gaze upon her, she did not return the favor. Her attention was split amongst the four condemned and a young man at her side. Lewis stared harder at her, pouring a desperate plea into his expression.

_Please. Acknowledge me. Remember me._

The guards pulled them all to a standing position, binding their hands and legs with strips of cloth. Finally her eyes locked on his. His heart sank into his gut at her blank expression. A guard pulled the noose over his head, and tightened around his thick neck.

"I want you to die quick," murmured the guard.

"You know best, Captain," he answered. A hood began its decent over his face, sparing the good people the horrendous sight of a man in his death throes. Before the hood slipped over his eyes, he noticed Melanie's lips move. Lewis Powell, aka Lewis Payne, inched forward to where the trapdoor lay prepared to disappear from under him.

_Goodbye my blue eyed charmer_.


End file.
